I rolled over and looked at the shiny new CD player in the ancient car, which had held only a cassette player when it had last visited here.
When Zee came in, I was using Power Words to describe service techs who didn't know how to tie their own shoes but felt free and easy meddling in one of my cars.
I'd been taking care of this Jetta for as long as I'd been working on cars, and felt a special affection for it.
Zee blinked at me a couple of times to hide his amusement.
"We could give your bill to the place that put her stereo in." "Would they pay for it?" I asked.
Zee smiled.
"They would if I took it in." Zee took a personal interest in our customers' cars, too.
We locked up for lunch and went to our favorite taco wagon for authentic Mexican tacos.
That meant no cheese or iceberg lettuce, but cilantro, lime, and radishes instead--a more-than-fair trade in my view.
The wagon was parked in a lot next to a Mexican bakery just across the cable bridge over the Columbia River, putting it in Pasco, but just barely.
Some wagons are step vans, but this one was a small trailer laden with whiteboards that listed the menu with prices.
The sweet-faced woman who worked there spoke barely enough English to take orders--which probably didn't matter because there were very few English-only speakers among her patrons.
She said something and patted my hand when I paid--and when I checked the bag to make sure the little plastic cups of salsa were there, I saw she'd added a couple of extra of my favorite tacos in our bag.
Which proved that everyone, even people who couldn't read the newspaper, knew about me.
Zee drove us to the park on the Kennewick side of the river, where there were waterfront picnic tables for us to eat at.
I sighed as we walked along the river's edge between the parking lot and the tables.
"I wish it hadn't made the papers.
How long before everyone forgets, and I don't get any more pitying looks?" Zee grinned wolfishly at me.
"I've told you before; you need to learn Spanish.
She congratulated you on killing him.
And she knows a few other men who could benefit from your efforts." He picked a table and sat down.
I sat down across from him and set the bag between us.
"She did not." I don't speak Spanish, but everyone who lives in the Tri-Cities for long picks up a few words--besides she hadn't said very much, even in Spanish.
"Maybe not the last part of it," agreed Zee, pulling out a chicken taco and squeezing one of the lime segments over it.
"Though I saw it in her face.
But she did say, `Bien hecho.'" I knew the first word, but he made me ask for the last, waiting until curiosity forced the words out of my mouth.
"Which means? Good--" "Good job." His white teeth sank into the tortilla.
Stupid.
It was stupid to let other people's opinions matter, but having someone else who didn't view me as a victim cheered me up immensely.
After pouring green hot sauce over my goat taco, I ate with a renewed appetite.